


and if he- if he could...

by shannonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Consent Issues, Dark Dean Winchester, Dubious Consent, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, but not really because Cas lets Dean do whatever he wants, no wait sorry, yeah sorry for writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonymous/pseuds/shannonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I feel like this is really violent, but then again I don't think it makes sense</p>
    </blockquote>





	and if he- if he could...

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is really violent, but then again I don't think it makes sense

Castiel lays stripped, cold flesh pressed to the smooth and unforgiving cement of the floor. This room is all he’s seen, four walls of cement and no windows; he’s spent days he’s unable to count, straining here on the floor, in this circle of blood and ward. The cement gives no way against his skinned body, human and feeble, the flesh peeling away and now raw on all his joints. Bones peek from his pink skin, flashing ivory when the slickness catches so fleetingly in the dim light. He’s dirty, completely soiled while his hair slicks greasy to the back of his head, and his skin no longer pale- blood has smeared and dried and flaked to give him a tan reminiscent of the sunlight. He dreamt of it often, the warmth- the – Castiel cannot remember what the sun felt like, and he stopped dreaming of it.

  
He’s stopped sleeping, as well. Castiel welcomes the madness that comes with staying awake, digging his nails into yielding flesh to keep himself alert. Every noise that echoes in his prison has him flinching, paranoid. He would cry, perhaps strain against the bonds keeping him trapped, embrace the hunger with which his stomach clenches—all taking more energy that he’s willing to waste. These are but small reminders of his plight, and that he hasn’t bitten on anything but his own tongue. Every moment his body aches, each little piece of darkness inside of him flares and jeers, gnawing on his being outward. They could burst from his skin and he’d delight in it, so human and all that pain deserved.  
Castiel cautiously raises his head; searching blue eyes wide in the penetrating darkness- he can feel it all over his skin and heavy in his lungs, the dirty tar of the atmosphere.  Footsteps, trailing down the stairs onto the basement floor; Castiel is on his feet. His naked form nearly floats in the dark, his bones so light and so at home here. Hands snatch at his hair and he nearly cries out from the splendor of it all—Dean, _Dean_. The worthiest of worship, the righteous one that will always lift him from the darkness in his arms. Castiel embraces the grandeur of repent, fingers falling to the spaces in his ribs before forcing him to his knees- he will always, and never, find freedom at these hands. His hair is matted to his skull under the heavy touch, unkemptly disastrous in his graceful heartache. Pull, pull, pulls when he push- push- pushes inside so hard, so dry.

There are fingers clutching at his skin, burning, burning aching _fuckfuckfuck_ that sting of skin on skin. The blackbird of bliss hangs precariously on the tail of his doorway, pecking so deliberately at his rotting skull. Castiel's hands fly up to his forehead, warm blood pouring over his fingers and he briefly wonders if it's his own-- he's been _so cold_ there's no possible way. Dean rocks into him, harder, faster; _pleasepleaseplease_ , and the fingers are snatching the very breath from his throat. Breath plays, beautiful gasps coming from between palms covered with cement-abrasions, he can't clean the blood off of his fingers, no matter how uselessly he scrapes at the ground. It breaks his fingertips, smears of lines making their way under him; he wants to escape through the marks to another layer of perdition, relive this haven of pleasure.  
His lungs ache, breaking for the air that's being denied so swiftly with longing hands.

  
Lips find bruises to adore, to lace with love and sanguinity. Grunts, harder; Dean pounds into him so hard he's bleeding, ripping from the inside out. If the angel had a soul, he'd scream, give his love that satisfaction-- but everything's been spilled on the basement floor. Everything is dark behind his eyes; sequins of blood-spattered kisses raise colors in places to hide. The force of the orgasm, the world-ripping feeling of dying is yanked away with a rough hand.

He’s thrown to the side. The basement floor tears at his skin; the broken curl of human sinks his teeth into his own arm to fight away the hunger pains, to fight away the whimpers that lilt on the back of his throat with soft mewls of love that seems to regurgitate on his stuttered words.  
Come here, my love. My heart, my life. I won't hurt you; I'll love you forever in a castle by the sea.  
  
Fresh silver slices at his flushed skin, beautifully aching to be split a little more. Castiel chokes on the iron in his mouth, spitting it onto the cement. He falls to the unforgiving cement, staring wide-eyed and terrified at his love- his world, the soul he had gripped (in so many times, love).  
The angel whimpers with a weak sound, muffled with all the blood in his throat, reaching a yearning hand. The man swipes at the fingers, and Castiel cries out only in love when the blade takes a long shot at the knuckles. Dean kneels, straddling the angel’s slim waist as blood bubbles in words over pale lips, shaking and trembling, so _coldcoldcold_. The hipbones are sharp, digging into the soft flesh of his thighs.  
There's another sound- short, gurgled out through the thick liquid and another glues the insides of Castiel’s mouth shut, Dean can feel it as he kisses the angel, tasting the death and the love and the sins and the black and the breath and all of that red, the very beauty of it all. He uses the knife to gut the angel’s throat, working to carve the art of adoration under skin and bone. The heaving of a thin chest stops, still- the clock hands beneath his ribcage pausing as if to take another step, but the man won't allow it.  
His kisses find love once again, smeared all over his work of art and he tests the sin on the tip of his tongue. My love, my devotion of pure adoration.  
  
"You know I love you best," Dean murmurs, wiping the blade off on his jeans.


End file.
